Niccolo Rising - Dorothy Dunnett [47]
“Wait!” said the commander. The deck, which had begun to tilt, righted itself swaying under his feet as swimmers and non-swimmers paused on their way to jump over the side. The Greek smiled.
“Let me suggest,” said the commander easily, “that more success might attend the efforts of just one man. Let the slave perform. It is his trade, diving.”
He was the commander, so those who grumbled, grumbled quietly. Instead of jumping, they struggled for viewpoints. Nearest the companionway were the captains Astorre and Lionetto.
The African brute was unshackled. He was instructed by dumb show what he was to do, and then instructed again by an oarsman in broken Spanish. Then, as the devil still hesitated, they flung him over the side and pointed a few arrows at him, in case he thought of swimming all the way back to the Guinea coast.
When he came up to the surface from time to time after that, they flung whatever came to hand at his head and shoulders until he went down again. Nobody wanted to be there all day.
The commander watched with patience, having already chosen the moment when he would declare, with regret, that the search was void. It was therefore with astonishment not unmixed with annoyance that he saw the dull wool-head and broad shining features shoot up yet again from the water, accompanied this time by an upflung arm bearing the captain’s vulgar pink goblet, unbroken.
He could hear, from the two ridiculous men, the hiss of indrawn breath as they caught sight of the goblet: see the smile of the face of the owner and the rage of the man Lionetto.
The negro had reached the steps and was dragging himself upwards. At the top, stabbing the air, were the long arms of Lionetto and the short arms of Astorre, awaiting him. The African hesitated.
The Greek said something to the commander, and the commander spoke to the Spanish linguist.
“Tell the slave to keep the goblet from the two captains. Tell him to throw it to the other men of the – what? – the Charetty household. Where messer Nicholai indicates. The three men you see over there.”
The first Julius knew of this inspiration was the tilting backwards of all the heads in front of him, as if to watch the flight of some firework. In a perfunctory way, he looked up as well. Arching high in the air, there rushed towards him something gleaming and pink that looked very like the stupid standing-cup Astorre was carrying on about. Julius staggered, jabbed by Felix’s elbow as Felix started to jump, trying to catch the thing.
He was annoyed with Felix. It pleased him to see Felix teeter in turn as Claes calmly took his place, raised his large, secure hands and caught the goblet.
Julius could have sworn, afterwards, that he caught it.
It was hard to tell, therefore, how a second later it was not in Claes’ hands at all, but smashed into a shower of rose-coloured particles which glittered everywhere you looked: in bits of fur and folds of silk and majolica bowls and screws of sugar and people’s boot-tops and purse-bags and scabbards.
Or empty scabbards, in the case of Astorre and Lionetto, who were thrusting together towards the unfortunate Claes, a blade in the fist of each. Behind them on the rail, the nobleman Simon was smiling.
It was Lionetto, who had not paid for the goblet, who suddenly stopped, looked at his dagger, and then dropping it back in its sheath, threw back his head and started to laugh. “That silly boy and you between you could strip me to my small clothes! That’s what you said! Astorre, my poor fool! You couldn’t even hold your own goblet, and he couldn’t even catch it! Strip me to my small clothes!”
“Ah,” said the Greek softly. “What a pity.”
“Is it?” said the commander. “I should not have given much for the